


Stripped Blind and Flayed Whole

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bondage, Coming Untouched, Community: daily_deviant, Dominant Neville, Exhibitionism, M/M, Mild Humiliation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Nudity, Public Sex, Sex Club, Submissive Draco, Sweat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is an unowned submissive, and as such, the club can do with him as they will. It’s strangely freeing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stripped Blind and Flayed Whole

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Daily Deviant's July prompts. I chose the themes of public nudity and salophilia (sweat). As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Harry Potter, I just like to write about them.

Even though Draco has paperwork already on file with _Cascade_ , there are a number of new clauses to sign. He would think that by now he would have become accustomed to reading legal wording while standing around with his prick hanging out, but it hasn’t happened. Every time he is absolutely certain that they wait until he is completely disrobed before bringing in the papers solely to ensure maximum embarrassment.

He’s probably not wrong.

After all, the list of pre-approved kinks in his file is fairly simple: public play, humiliation, anonymity, mild to moderate pain, bondage, bottoming, and orgasm denial. He occasionally adds something, or makes a special request, or agrees to a request as given, but those are what he expects when he surrenders himself to be taken by a member of this particular club.

He is an unowned submissive, and as such, the club can do with him as they will.

It’s strangely freeing.

And of course, he has no history here. There is nothing to bind him to his past, only to the wall. He smirks at the image, finding amusement in his own internal humour.

He finishes signing his name with a flourish—not that it would help these Muggles if they ever decided to investigate him, as he has no identity in their world—and sets the pen down. “There we go.” He spreads his hands and deliberately turns his back on the man who waits for him. “Go on then. Get started.”

“Remember who gives the orders.” The man smacks him on the ass, the after-image burning in Draco’s skin.

Oh, he does, most definitely. This is why he is here, so he can let go in a place that is _safe_. A place that lets the armour slip from his skin and leave him bare. Draco lets his head drop forward, his hands dangling by his side. “Of course, sir,” he murmurs.

His hands are brought behind his back, each wrist bound in leather, then to a bar that keeps them separated just enough to let them hang behind the jut of his hipbones. There is a tug on his hair, and as he brings his head up, a blindfold is placed over his eyes. A mask goes on first, fitting close to his face and shutting out all light, then a silken length wraps around it to keep everything in place. Draco blinks and sees nothing.

He is guided by fingers against his elbow, taking him through twisting passages until they enter a room that is hot as a sauna. He starts to say something, but a low cough keeps him silent.

Of course the temperature is intended; they wouldn’t simply let the cooling process _fail_. Even Muggles aren’t that stupid.

The bar between his wrists is raised behind him, attached to a chain by the sound of it and held up so that he can lean forward and twist; he is far from comfortable. His feet are left unfettered, and from the sound of it, his escort is leaving.

“Wait!” Draco calls. He isn’t certain if they stop, but he asks anyway, “Can you tell me what I should expect?”

There is a low sound, a small grunt of disapproval. “That will be a question for your master for the night, if he chooses to allow you to ask.”

The door closes and leaves Draco in silence.

And in the stifling heat.

He may be naked, but he isn’t immune to the ravages of the high temperature. It isn’t long before sweat beads on his forehead and dampens under his arms. He feels a drip slide down his side, into the cut of his hip. Wet nestles between his thighs, his balls hot and moist. He tries to shift to find a new way to stand, feeling the pull against the shoulders. It leaves him with only two options: remain as he is and sweat profusely, or risk dislocating his shoulders.

He chooses to stay where he is. Sweat is not a natural state for a Malfoy, but if this is what is desired, he will do it.

After all, he is here to serve someone else’s desires, not his own.

There is a faint sound, the whirr of Muggle machinery, then the door clicks open. “Here you go, sir.” Draco recognizes the voice of the host of the club, tone smooth as silk when he speaks to his customers. “The controls are here,” he continues. “The curtains will remain open for as long as you desire, but should you wish privacy, simply press this. Until you do, everyone who is on the other side of the glass will see everything you do.”

“And the window is in view of anyone who is in the main room of the club?” The voice that responds is low and a bit thick, a northern accent muddling the words. “I want—” He stops abruptly, voice turning doubtful. “He’s signed all the paperwork?”

“Everything,” the host assures him. “He is entirely yours to treat as you desire. And of course, he is here of his own volition; we do not agree with, nor foster, human slavery here at _Cascade_. All of our provided submissives have entered into contracts of their own free will.”

“Of course.” There are footsteps, heavy and careful, each one measured as the stranger paces the room. “Is he aware that he will be watched?”

“It is one of his preferred kinks.” Draco can hear the hosts’s smile. “He performs well in front of an audience.”

“His name?”

“Whatever you wish to call him. He has no name here; his contract is in anonymity.” There is a rustling sound; Draco suspects the host bows. “I shall leave you to it. If there is anything you require, please do not hesitate to call.”

The door closes, and Draco knows that they are now alone in one of the windowed rooms that juts out over the main floor of the club. He has seen them before, watched scenes play out, but he has never been brought into one for the illusion of privacy while being watched. He can’t hear his audience, but he knows they are there, and that settles something in his bones that there will be witnesses for this.

“No names,” the stranger murmurs, and the hand that touches his cheek is gentle. “You will be my boy, then, and I will be your Sir. Tell me, boy, what is your safeword?”

Draco’s eyes are closed behind the mask, his head bowed forward as he hangs against the restraints, letting his shoulders take the brunt of it. “Alohomora,” he whispers, because it sounds like a nonsense word and yet it has so much symbolism. These Muggles never know the pun intended, but this one—this one laughs, a short bark of laughter when Draco speaks.

“Fine.” Sir circles him, fingers touching too briefly to arouse, just long enough to intrigue. Draco feels the roughness, even at the tips of those fingers, skin hardened by work. The touch drifts across his chest, teasing a nipple as it passes, then fingers tuck under his chin, arching his head back. “Are you comfortable?”

“No.”

A quick swat to his arse, the point burning. “Say that again.”

“No, Sir,” Draco amends quietly. “I’m hot, and my shoulders hurt.”

“I see.” One cuff is unlatched from the rod, and a moment later his hands swing free abruptly. Large, thick fingers wrap around his wrists, bringing them forward, and Draco is rebound in the front, his hands lifted over his head. He can stand on tiptoe, finding something almost like balance when he spreads his legs.

He feels sweat drip trails down his thighs, and he whines at the sensation.

“Is that you don’t like being hot, or that you don’t like the way people are looking at you… seeing you all disheveled and rumpled, as if you’re something common?” The more Sir speaks, the easier it is to fall into his north country accent, Draco’s body almost swaying with the dip and rise of his words.

Somehow Sir _knows_. Draco’s breath hitches, because Sir has hit him _exactly_ where it hurts, that he is swinging here in full view and he is not in control. They see him stripped down and _sweating_. He shivers, the sensation sliding into a full body shudder when Sir dips his hand between Draco’s legs, gliding through the wet.

“I’m not good enough for you,” Draco whispers, because like this, he is _not_. He is not _presentable_. He is not _perfect_.

“Everyone is human,” Sir murmurs, mouth against the side of Draco’s neck. “Everyone, in the end, sweats like a fucking pig in this heat.”

Draco inhales roughly, seeking some sense that _Sir_ is as undone as himself, but he can’t find that rank scent of human sweat. He shakes his head, denying the words. It is only Draco that is affected. Only Draco who fails to be presentable.

Sir laughs softly, nips at his skin. “I can taste it,” he whispers. “The way your nerves pour out through the sweat on your skin, the way you shiver when I touch you because they can see you. You know you will be debauched and you will come unhinged beneath my touch. I will make you beg.”

It’s the hands that get to Draco, the way the palms seem to fit the bone of his hip, the way the fingers splay, stroking roughly across his abdomen. “Do you…” His voice catches, scratching roughly in his throat. “Do you like when I sweat?”

“I want to see you lose control,” Sir tells him. “I want to taste you as you shatter.”

There is a rush of motion; Sir sinks down, and Draco thinks he must go to his knees. A nose presses into the crease between thigh and balls, a tongue swipes a path through the sweat and stink. Draco shudders again, his prick already hard and aching.

“Do not orgasm,” Sir orders. “Not until I say.”

Draco wonders if he can hold back this time. He is never touched like this, with patience and calm, tongue flicking over the skin as if it holds wonder and promise. He is usually fucked hard, fingers gripping with nails bruising tender skin. He leaves with marks to be healed, his ass aching and his body hungry. He is able to let go and fly in those last moments, to leave his mind and heart behind and just _be_.

Not tonight.

Tonight he is worshipped, Sir’s tongue dragging along skin as if he can taste every inch of him. As if Draco’s secrets seep out and onto Sir’s tongue to be swallowed away. Draco sighs into the touch, whining as he lets go, inch by inch, and lets Sir nuzzle in closer. He feels each inhalation, the satisfied sound that Sir makes when he reaches the darkest spaces, where sweat pools in thick clots and Draco’s skin sticks together.

It is altogether undignified, and at the same time, it is more than anything he has ever felt before.

“Please,” he whispers.

“What are you begging for, boy?”

Draco hesitates, unable to find the words. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Just… I want…”

“You want it rough?” Sir rises, moving behind him, pressing in close. He is still clothed, but Draco can feel the ridge of his cock, thick and hard beneath Muggle trousers. “You want to be punished? You want to be stripped of all dignity and flayed in public, so you can repent and let your sins go?”

Draco can’t breathe, and he doesn’t dare nod. His head turns to one side, staring where the floor might be; anywhere but at Sir. Even with the blindfold hiding his eyes, he can’t look at him.

“It’s not that easy,” Sir whispers. “It’s never that easy. You can punish yourself all you want and the sins never wash free. It just gets harder and harder to find that space, to let them go. One of these days you’ll let someone nearly kill you, and it won’t matter, because you’ll still feel the guilt when it’s done.”

Sir dips his head, mouths along the stretch of Draco’s neck, licking at the skin. “What’s even harder,” he murmurs, “is learning to love yourself. It’s easy to hate, but it does nothing for you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Draco can’t help it, the words spilling out, a sneer lifting his lip.

A hand lands heavily on his arse, then another, and Draco cries out as he sways forward. “Sir!” He inhales roughly, and repeats his words to correct his mistake. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, _Sir_.”

It surprises him when Sir laughs at his impertinence, the rumble shaking the body behind him. “I am going to take you apart.” Sir’s tone is mild, but it still makes Draco shiver with the amount of promise that vibrates beneath the words. The heavy weight against his back disappears, and Draco hears the sound of zippers pulled and clothes being discarded. The scent of Muggle lubricant is pungent to his nose, almost unpleasant, but it means that Draco knows what is coming.

Sir stands to his side, one hand braced against Draco’s chest, just over his heart, the other sliding between the cheeks of his arse. “You have a pretty, pale arse,” Sir murmurs. “Slender. Do you think you can take my cock? It’s not easy.”

“I can take whatever you give to me, Sir.” Draco lies through his teeth. There are things that he has tried—dildos that he has attempted—that have failed. It’s possible that Sir falls into this category, but if he does, his girth and length would be impressive.

There is nothing that will keep Draco from trying.

Sir starts a little roughly, two fingers circling Draco’s hole before pressing in together, pushing him wide from the start. He cries out, swaying forward, and he wonders what people see. If they are out there wanking, or _fucking_ , because of the way he looks.

He whines at the thought, pushing his prick against open air, desperate for friction.

“Need something more?” Sir’s words are muffled, pressed against skin as he nips his way across Draco’s chest, lapping at the salt on his skin. Sir lavishes attention on his prick, licking up one side, then nuzzling in against his thigh, tongue teasing at Draco.

He whimpers, thrusting again, feeling the stroke of his cock against Sir’s cheek. There’s a pinch to the tender skin on the inside of his thigh as Sir chastises, “Remember, do not orgasm.”

He _could_. Draco tilts on the edge of a cliff and he could fall so easily.

But it feels so good to sway there, knowing that he is close and holding himself back. It is _control_.

By giving himself over, by letting himself be used and broken, he is finally in control.

“More, please, Sir,” he whispers, and he is rewarded by a third finger stretching him even more.

The fingers feel huge, certainly thicker than his own, blunt-tipped and thrusting smoothly as more lubricant is added. Draco thrusts into the warmth of Sir’s mouth, whining his pleasure, trying to fuck deep but only allowed shallow entrance. He wants more, _craves_ more, and he lets himself swing between the hand in his arse and the mouth on his cock. He hangs almost limply from where his wrists are bound, letting his body free to fuck and be fucked.

There is a rhythm to it, disturbed when the fourth finger is added, then found again within the deep burn of pleasure. 

“I think you could take my whole hand.” Sir twists those fingers, and Draco cries out, pushing back and begging for more. “Another time.” His tongue swipes behind Draco’s balls, sucks in tender skin and gently lets it slip back out. 

“ _Please_ , Sir.” His heart is racing, his body taut. He is so wound that he could snap at any moment, and it is sheer will that keeps his orgasm at bay. He needs this, needs to let go and collapse, and Sir _will not let him_. Draco begs in wordless whines, sounds running together into meaningless whimpers.

“Please you want my whole hand? Or do you want me to fuck you, boy?” Sir stands, and his hand and mouth are both gone, leaving Draco bereft. A hand lands lightly against his arse, a swat to remind him that a question was asked. “Answer me.”

“Fuck me,” Draco whispers, the words hard fought within his mind. “Fuck me, _Sir_.”

The cock that splits him is wider than anything he has ever taken before. Sir doesn’t hesitate, simply slicking him up with more lubricant still, then pressing in so quickly in that Draco’s breath is stolen. Sir makes it several strokes before Draco can breathe again, crying out, tears pricking his eyes from the pain. “ _Fuck_.”

The mouth on his shoulder whispers _are you all right?_ and it’s so quiet that Draco almost isn’t sure he heard it. The words slip deep beneath the way he feels like flying, and he nods once, so slowly that he isn’t sure it’s even a motion, then he nods again.

It hurts, it burns, but it feels _good_. It feels like _more_ , like his entire world is centered around the person behind him and the thing in his arse. Sir moves quickly, snapping forward until Draco jerks against his bindings, his prick bobbing in the open air. He wishes he could touch it, wishes he could stroke himself to get off, it hurts so fucking much right now.

But the pain reminds him _he is in control_ and he wavers there, holding back.

Sir reaches up, unlatching first one cuff than the other, and Draco’s hands fall, buzzing from the sensation of blood returning. He isn’t allowed to stand, manhandled forward until his hands press against glass, his head turning to keep from smushing his nose into it. Sir thrusts and Draco’s hips push forward, cock touching the glass on every stroke. It teases him, draws him back to the edge and dangles him over; he curls his toes and fists his hands, entire body taut with denial.

“Now,” Sir whispers. “I want to feel you come _now_ , boy.”

Draco does, with a strangled cry, his entire body jerking with the force of his orgasm. He almost falls, if it weren’t for Sir’s arm around his waist, and he lies there limp against the glass while Sir finishes inside of him. He can feel the pulse of Sir’s orgasm, his thick cock to big not to notice.

Sir pulls out and Draco tries to clench around him, keep him inside. He feels the loss, his arse gaping open, and the slide of liquid down the inside of his thighs as jism leaks out. His knees are weak, and Sir lowers him to the floor carefully, wrapping strong arms around him and drawing him in close to cradle him, rocking gently.

Draco doesn’t know what to do with the careful kiss against his forehead, the soft murmured nonsense words as he floats and tries to regain some sense of self.

“I’m going to go close the curtains,” Sir says quietly. “And get you a blanket. Don’t move.”

There is a whir in the background, and a moment later Draco feels soft plush wrapped around his shoulder. He sinks into the warmth and the comfort of being held. “Thank you, Sir.”

Fingers brush at the edges of his blindfold. “I’d like to break one of your rules.” Sir hesitates, fingers under the edge.

Draco could safeword here. He could refuse easily—anonymity is within the bounds of his contract after all. Instead he nods once. “Very well.”

The face revealed when he blinks into the light is unexpected, yet… not entirely so. Neville Longbottom’s broad features are concerned, his hands gentle as he strokes along Draco’s body, soft and soothing. “I recognized you,” Neville tells him quietly. “It only seemed fair that you ought to know it was me.”

“This is not a place I would have expected to find you.” Draco manages to keep his tone dry, though not nearly as biting as it might be otherwise.

“The war left us all with unexpected scars,” Neville countered. “And we all seek atonement in our own way.”

Draco wants to ask what Neville atones for, how he came to _this_. But it isn’t the time, nor the place, and the gentle touch is soothing him to near sleep. So he remains quiet, and he feels the smile against his forehead when Neville presses his lips there.

“You’re done for the night,” Neville tells him. “Come home with me, and I’ll make sure you’re well rested.”

“Very well.” Never let it be said that Draco doesn’t take orders well from a good dominant. And Neville is an _excellent_ dominant, one that Draco should like to explore further.

He reaches out, lets Neville pull him to his feet and wrap arms around him, guiding him from the room. Draco lets Neville take charge, finding his own strength in being able to do that. And for the first time in a very long time, Draco considers the future.

Perhaps it’s time for a change to his paperwork. He won’t give up the club; he enjoys it far too much, and it plays a vital role in his sanity. But perhaps he could negotiate with Neville for a change to his status.

Perhaps Draco could finally find a place to belong.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
